Gone Tropical (28 page)

The sound of the helicopter starting up grabbed his attention. Which way was the helipad? He took off, ducking and running through the rain around the side of the main house. He was freezing in just his shirt sleeves. The pilot sat in the copter alone.

He had moments to move. If the guy was getting it warmed up for take-off, that meant Col and Firth would be his passengers. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the criminals. They could stay here and die for all he cared. He had to get Sarge back to Helen. He could fly a copter.

Back in the small building, he hurried to Sarge and pulled him up. “Think you can walk?”

Sarge nodded.

“Might have to run, I want you to sling your arm around my neck. We’re taking over a helicopter.” He knew if Sarge could have opened his eyes they’d be wide and quizzical. “Trust me, I can do this. We stay here, we’re dead.” He gripped Sarge around the waist. A sharp pain shot through his rib cage and he tried to draw in a breath.

A shudder ran through him and he settled Sarge against his side, drew in as deep a breath as possible, and took off running. He stumbled, pulled Sarge tight against him, sure the man’s feet barely touched the ground and took off again dragging Sarge with him. Sarge crumpled a bit as they turned the corner and the wind hit them. Jake knew the poor guy could barely breathe, but neither could he.

“Stay with me,” he said. “It’s not far, lean into me.”

They limped around the corner to the helipad and the rear of the copter. The pilot was still the only person within it. Jake knew he could take him. He had to do it. It had been years since he’d flown a chopper, but he knew he could. It was like riding a bike, you never forget.

The bird was at flat pitch, the rotors spinning in the pouring rain, and he didn’t want to think about the storm raging about them, or what he’d be flying them into. He had to come up behind the chopper and that was dangerous because he couldn’t see a damn thing. He had to be careful of the fast turning tail rotor and in this darkness, and the heavy rain, he’d just have to get as low as possible and pray. It was hard to get low to the ground while dragging Sarge along but he managed, and inched along the pilot’s side of the copter.

“Gonna let you go for a minute, Sarge. Stay low.”

He dropped Sarge to the ground, and crept up alongside the Dolphin. He reached inside his shirt, unsheathed his knife, checked the gun, but left it in the holster. He opened the door and shoved the knife at the side of the pilot’s neck. The guys’ hands shot up above his head. The element of surprise, it worked every time.

“Australian Federal Police, slowly unbuckle your harness, and step out,” Jake said.

The guy did as he was instructed. “Get your hands on your head and face the cargo door. How many people are you transporting?”

“One guy, three dogs.”

“One guy…Col Braxton?”

“Yeah, he’s trying to sedate the dogs and collect his valuables.”

“Where is Firth?”

“Who?”

“Gray haired guy, beard, fortyish.”

“I dropped him in Cooktown, about midnight last night.”

“Thanks, and sorry for this,” Jake said. He cracked the guy across the back of the head with the rigid edge of his hand. The guy was out of it for now, but he’d live if the cyclone didn’t get him first. His body began to slide down the side of the helicopter cargo door and Jake hoisted him up and dragged his limp body across to the edge of the helipad and lay him down on his side. He slid open the cargo door and pulled Sarge up, and inside the copter. He left him bundled on the floor, wet and panting behind the pilot’s seat and jumped in. It was a short trip to the mainland and there was no time for niceties. Sarge would be fine.

The chopper was bigger than anything he’d ever flown, but he closed the door and yelled, “Hang on buddy, we’re going home.”

He strapped himself in and put on the headset, ready to radio ahead to the Cairns Police Station. He’d set the chopper down on their helipad and request assistance be waiting to meet them. He needed an ambulance for Sarge, stat.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Amy opened her eyes and this time the right one came unstuck. It hurt though, so she kept it closed and squinted through the good eye. Memories washed over her, coming back more easily this time, and she sat up slowly. The jeep stank of vomit.

“Sorry, Sarge,” she murmured.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position, put her hands on the back of the driver’s seat and rested her head on her arms. Was Meg safe? She thought of how stupid and obstinate she’d been. How she’d probably put the Thompsons in danger. If Firth was scared, if he’d attack her, what would he do to Meg if she fought him? She should never have interfered in the progress of this case. It wasn’t for her to find Firth. It was up to the AFP and the FBI.

She’d been proud and stupid, and the sweet taste of revenge that had kept her going now tasted sour. She didn’t know if Sarge and Jake were back, if they were safe, or if Firth was armed, or if he had everyone held hostage, or if they were all dead. She sat up. No, if Firth was armed he’d have shot her. She knew it with stunning clarity.

She needed water.

It was blacker than midnight outside. She wondered what supplies would be in the back of the jeep, if it would be worth trying to climb over. She wouldn’t risk going out and opening the hatch, might get drenched for nothing. At least for the moment she was dry. Still, this was Jake and Sarge’s jeep. They were P.I. and federal agent. Surely they’d have supplies of some sort. She felt around, where would the interior light be? She pressed around until a light flooded over her head. She blinked hard, and then snapped her eyes shut. Damn that hurt.

“Okay. Little by little, open your eyes,” she said trying to get rid of the stars that floated behind her eyelids. “Go slow until you adjust.”

She opened her left eye a crack and took in her surroundings. Vomit on the floor, blood on the seat. But hey, she was alive. Slowly she searched the back. There was a brown paper sack. She remembered how Jake had told Sarge he’d bought supplies when he got the hair dye. She reached back and almost passed out from the effort. The sack was too far back. She breathed in and out slowly, easing away the pain and the dizziness. And then she saw the wire coat hanger. She reached for it, stretched it out and hooked it at the base of the bag and pulled it toward her.

Fabulous
. “Thank you, guys,” she murmured, opened a bottle of water and drank, making sure not to overdo it. She couldn’t risk being sick again. She rummaged through the bag.
Chocolate.

“Jake, I love you.”

She ripped open the bar and placed a tiny square on her tongue and closed her eyes. It might have been the cheapest bar of chocolate known to man, the waxiest chocolate ever made, but to her it was nectar of the gods.

There was something else there, a jacket of some kind. She hooked it. It was a windbreaker. It even had a hood hidden in the neck in a long skinny zippered compartment. She undid it and wondered how far from Bungumby she was. Would she be able to find her way in the dark? She rummaged through the console between the front seats, found a good long-handled flashlight and paper and pen.

Dizziness washed over her and the back of her neck tingled. She put her head down and breathed slowly.
Make small movements, nothing sudden
.

She slowly lifted her head and with a shaky hand wrote a note and left it on the front seat. She’d leave the interior vehicle light on too, just in case she couldn’t find her way and had to return. It would eventually flatten the battery, but there was no way she’d try to reverse out of this jungle anyway. Besides, she couldn’t find the keys.

There was only one bottle of water and it was now half empty. But the water in the lagoon was fed by a natural spring. That water was fresh and clean. The big question was could she stand up yet? Could she walk? And could she walk in torrential rain?

Well, to hell with it, she had to.

She’d made this mess and even if she lost her life trying to make it right, she would do everything possible to redeem herself. And then she’d get some help, serious psychiatric help.

****

Stuart sat at the kitchen table in Bungumby Lodge and eyed the woman he’d thought would always love him. The old bloke was okay, he was alive, still on the floor but out cold. The woman was sniffling and wanting to go to him, but he’d said no and threatened her with the rifle. He’d never used a rifle, never killed anyone, unless you counted Amy. But that wasn’t with a rifle. But Meg, she said nothing and that irked him.

She sat, staring at him like he was vermin. She wasn’t even crying.

“So, sweetie,” he said. “Tell me about this phone call you had to patch through. Who did you call and what did you tell them?”

Meg raised her eyes and held his. “I couldn’t get through.”

“Then let me rephrase my question, who did you intend to call?”

“The Cairns police station.”

Stuart flicked an eyebrow.
Damn.
She hadn’t lied. Hadn’t even attempted to, what was wrong with her? She should have at least tried to lie, not that he would have believed her story. But she should have tried. “And why would you need to contact them?”

Meg inhaled and blew the air out in a long slow exhale. “Cut the crap, Stuart. We know the truth. You’re nothing but a con man.”

He stared at her. “I love you, Meg.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” she said.

Her voice was icy. He shuddered. This wasn’t like sweet Meg. Who the hell had gotten to her? That bitch, Amy? And who was Meg to tell him he didn’t know what love was? He’d loved her from the moment he’d met her. Hell, he’d intended to stay married to her. He raised the rifle and pointed it at her nose. “I know what love is,” he said and stared her down.

She still didn’t flinch. It was really pissing him off.

If he couldn’t have her nobody would have her. If he couldn’t have Bungumby, nobody would. He’d burn the whole fucking thing down. With all of this forest, as soon as the storm was over, it would go up like a tinder box. Nobody would have his Meg, ever.

This was about survival. He had to forget Meg and get the hell out of here. The old guy was snorting. He’d have to finish this fast, if he could do it. He had the rifle, he could demand car keys, get the hell out of here. But where would he go? The cyclone was heading this way but he hadn’t listened to a report in hours. If he could get them into the cellar and lock them inside, then he’d have time to figure out what to do next.

He didn’t have to shoot them. That was sheer madness. He wasn’t a killer. The old woman was crying and pleading for him to put the rifle down. Meg sat stone-faced. The noise was getting to him again. Between the old guy and his snorting, and the woman and her crying, and the wind howling and the whole friggin’ lodge shuddering from the winds, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He heard something crash outside and jumped.

He needed to find out where the shelter was. Why weren’t they in it? “Where’s the shelter?”

“The what?” Meg asked.

“Shelter, cellar, whatever the hell you call it,” Stuart said. “You said we’d be safe here. I think we need to get into it.”

Meg stared at him for a moment. “I lied to the authorities. We don’t have one. We just stay here in the kitchen. We’ve never had damage to the lodge in the past.”

Stuart knew she was bluffing. Dammit, now she was lying. Sweat trickled down the back of his shirt. His hand shook and he gripped the rifle tight. He’d never killed anyone before today. He’d never even killed an animal. But then he’d hit Amy. She’d just crumpled, bled like crazy, and slid to the ground. He hadn’t felt a thing afterward. A tremendous crash rocked the lodge on its foundation. Glass shattered somewhere in the main lounge and cold air flooded the kitchen.

“What the…what the hell was that?” Stuart asked.

“Probably the front windows,” Meg said, and calmly stood. “I’ll go check it out.”

“You’ll stay the fuck where you are,” Stuart said, and raised the rifle.
Shit, I have to get to safety.
It might be messy at close range. If he did it from a distance…didn’t look back. He stood up and backed toward the door to the lounge, the rifle raised.

****

Amy found her way to the main path leading to Bungumby. She’d had to stop several times to rest, but all things considered, she was doing much better than she’d expected. Giant palm fronds blew around her, landing all over the clearing. Whole branches from the giant eucalyptus trees, severed by the winds like arms cut from a body, lay like bleeding stumps on the ground and partially blocked her path. A huge sheet of corrugated iron lifted off the roof of one of the cabins and flew through the air to land on the verandah of the lodge.

At the speed of the winds it could sever the head of a person caught in its path. Amy shuddered and drew the jacket tight. She braced against the wind, ducked her head against the stinging rain, and pulled the side of the hood around to protect her damaged right eye.

“Almost there, kiddo,” she said.

Another sheet of corrugated iron ripped off a roof, and she fell to the ground, throwing herself alongside a fallen branch, and covered her head. The iron landed in the clearing, a few feet from her, and she crawled on hands and knees the rest of the way to the stairs leading up to the lodge. As she pulled herself upright, the entire front windows of the lodge shattered.

Glass sprayed everywhere and she stayed at the bottom of the stairs hanging onto the handrail. When she thought it was clear, she went up the stairs and saw the damage to the huge windows. Through them was the glimmer of candlelight down the hall in the kitchen.

How odd. Voices, why would they be in the kitchen? Why not in the cellar?

Stuart was yelling. She’d know his voice anywhere. He was angry and scared, and she’d never heard him either way, but it was definitely his voice. She stood outside of the window and got her breath, then gingerly stepped in through the window, almost bare of glass. What could she use as a weapon?

Above the dresser in the dining room were rows and rows of wine bottles. She inched her way along the wall, her heart pounding. She selected a heavy-based bottle of champagne and walked toward the kitchen. Her head ached and her right eye stung. Her wound had started to bleed again and she could taste the sticky, coppery, trickle of blood as it made its way to the corner of her mouth. She shivered and forced herself forward.